


Ad Infinitum

by Anonymous



Category: Transformers: Prime
Genre: Alternate Universe - Decepticons Won, Bloodlust to Lust, Complete Loss of Autonomy, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Double Penetration in Two Holes, Exhibitionism, Feeding, Forcibly silenced, Jealousy, M/M, Mech Preg (Transformers), Multiple Orgasms, POV Alternating, Perpetual Penetration, Possessive Behavior, Public Sex, Twin Spikes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:53:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28459311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Even after six vorns and three sparklings, the Emperor of All Cybertron remains as enamoured as ever with the Last of the Primes.
Relationships: Megatron/Optimus Prime
Comments: 9
Kudos: 80
Collections: PB Anon Meme - 2020





	Ad Infinitum

**Author's Note:**

> The title means "until infinity".

Optimus awoke to the familiar fullness of Megatron's spikes, wedged as usual in both valve and aft. He onlined slowly, taking care not to betray his awakened state.

The initial sickness at their permanently intertwined state had come and gone, leaving him only with a lingering discomfort. A part of him reasoned that there was no way Megatron could truly keep this up _forever_. Another part argued that the Slagmaker had at kept up with it for six vorns and counting.

At the present, his only scrap of personal space existed in the nebulous realm of recharge. And even there, Megatron remained a constant feature in his fluxes.

Gloating, always gloating. As he had every right to, being the decided winner of their war.

His processor was brought back to the present when the great warbuild beneath him stirred. In the past, Megatron was lightning-fast to wake, shifting online in a matter of millikliks. His optics would blink on and his plating would flare, as if alarmed by the presence of his mate.

Those orns were long gone. Now, the Slagmaker eased his processor online, systems buzzing to life in tandem. Optimus felt his frame rumble as servos reached up and around, stroking at his spread thighs, his taut backstruts, his well-mouthed neck cables.

He forced his own optics online, determined to power through another nightmarish orn.

\---

Optimus Prime's frame had grown deliciously pliant since their initial bonding. His valve and aft had adjusted marvelously to the stretch of Megatron's twin spikes, so much so that he didn't need to spend joors stretching the other open whenever he did disengage, however briefly.

Megatron was, however, pleased to say the same could not be said for the bot himself.

Even after the emergence of their third sparkling, Optimus' spark sat ill at-ease with their union. The Autobot was not so much disgusted as he was mistrustful. Megatron gave a low rumble of his engines as he carressed his bondmate's chest plating. He doubted the emergence of their fourth sparkling — expected in ten lunar cycles — would change things.

Optimus had been bonded to him, in both spark and frame, at the end of their war. The thought of joining their interface equipment together permanently had only occurred to Megatron when he had laid claim to the other before their combined armies but once it had wormed its way into his processor, he could think of nothing but.

His desire had been a simple one: that the moment — that glorious breem where his spike had been embraced by the other's warm wet valve — might never end.

After a couple adjustments to his armour and a few carefully-worded threats, that desire had blossomed into reality. Fast forward a couple quartexes, and he had managed to coax Optimus' aft to accept his secondary spike too.

Now here they were, merrily bonded for six vorns, and he — and his interface equipment — could not be happier.

Most of the time, their frames were pressed chassis-to-chassis. This included recharge, nine out of ten interface sessions, refueling, and — for a glorious handful of lunar cycles — active combat. Megatron's primary spike — the one wedged in Optimus' valve — gave a hungry twitch at the memory. Being a warbuild meant that lust and bloodlust were thickly intertwined. The brief conflict against the Nessites had thus filled Optimus with enough transfluid to create their second sparkling.

The Quintessons and their pit-forsaken Co-Prosperity Sphere lurked evermore on the horizon. Megatron could practically smell the encroaching conflict. His systems sang at the thought of another fight and his spikes twitched in happy agreement. Briefly, he wondered if their fourth sparkling would have emerged then. Either way, there was no better feeling than his servos wrapped about a blade, swung in the fire of conquest, while his bondmate's legs were wrapped about his waist, that delectable valve and too-tight aft milking him dry.

The anticipation had been enough to fully pressurise his spike. In his defense however — and as another point to his mate — it was never anything less than half-hard these days, what with the company it kept.

His cooling fans clicked on as he quickly reversed their positions. As previously noted, Optimus' frame was fantastically cooperative, twitching and rolling and _arching_ in response to Megatron's shallow, languid thrusts.

After ten breems, both of them crested into a mutual overload. Megatron collapsed — a gentle but firm weight — on top of his bondmate, pinning him to the berth for some kliks as their systems scrambled to reboot.

And then he shifted, pulling both of them off the berth and carrying Optimus — whose valve was still trembling from the aftershocks of overload — over to the refueling station.

"We have some time before the first audience," Megatron noted, after having fed Optimus intake-to-intake. He leaned forward, licking some energon from his mate's dermas, and gave a rumble of approval as Optimus' legs clenched a little tighter about his waist. "Would you like to see our sparklings?"

Optimus took his sweet time in responding, loathe as ever to use their private line.

It was, however, the only means of glyph-based communication available to him as Megatron had disabled both his vocaliser and all other lines at the start of their union. In short, it meant that Optimus was entirely reliant on him to play medium to his thoughts, a fact which never failed to chafe at the Prime's field.

‹I would,› Optimus answered at last. Despite the circumstances of their kindling and the fact that he had never — and _would_ never — have a direct servos in his creations' upbringing, he nonetheless loved the bitlets dearly.

Megatron gave another pleased rumble before moving to finish off his own energon ration.

"Then let us be off," he murmured, setting the empty cube aside before lifting his mate up once more.

As previously noted, the two of them were joined chassis-to-chassis most of the time. The handful of joors which they weren't were entirely for Optimus' benefit, so that he might interact with their sparklings (which Megatron encouraged) or with other bots seeking an audience (which Megatron tolerated... for the most part).

When they weren't facing one another, Optimus remained seated — spiked, in fact — in Megatron's lap. It was simply a reversal of his spikes in that, upon turning his mate around, he would work his primary spike into Optimus' aft and his secondary into his valve.

All in all, it meant that Optimus remained deliciously _his_ , even when he was interacting with other bots.

Megatron watched on, idly stroking his mate's hip cabling, as Optimus chirped and cooed at the sparklings. Their firstborn, Galvatron, had recently grown into using his own vocaliser. As such, it meant Optimus needed to use their private line in order to speak with the bright-eyed bitlet.

Galvatron was presently recounting — in a terrible mix of Kaonite and Tarnese — some make-believe adventure of his which featured a meandering route through the palace gardens.

"Carrier says your story is most amusing," Megatron drawled. Optimus' aft clenched hard against his primary spike in response. Megatron dug in a little deeper at his mate's cabling before adding: "He wants to know what your brothers were doing while you played." There, that was a more accurate relay of information.

After a joor spent with their sparklings, Megatron announced that they were needed in the audience hall. The sparklings were corraled away, although not before Galvatron ran his little servos over Optimus' chassis, eyes bright at the thought of another younger brother. Then Megatron lifted Optimus up again, turning him so that he was once more speared open in their usual arrangement, before pushing himself (and therefore, both their frames) up on his pedes.

‹I want them to learn Iaconian too,› Optimus said as Megatron carried him to the audience hall.

"I'll consider it," Megatron conceded, stroking his mate's backstruts.

Like always, the Royal Guards dutifully held open the doors as Megatron strolled down the throne room which doubled as an audience hall. Being speared wide open for all to see always caused Optimus to clench up particularly tight against him. This orn was no different. Megatron then sat himself down on the single throne that dominated the top of the dais. In contrast to the repositioning at the nursery, the calipers in Optimus' valve needed to be coaxed into loosening. It took a couple breems, but Megatron was an expert in the inner workings of his mate's frame by this point. Soon enough, Optimus was seated in his lap anew, with his back pressed against Megatron's chest and his aft filled once more with Megatron's spike.

Megatron moved his own servos down to rest over his mate's bared interface panel. While he didn't mind their sparklings seeing their carrier's valve filled with his secondary spike, the hoi-polloi were a different matter. It was enough that they knew Optimus was his; they had no right to see his intimate parts.

With the knowledge that Optimus' valve was sufficiently covered, Megatron cleared his intakes, licking a possessive stripe up Optimus' left audial — which caused Optimus' valve and aft to clench in the most wonderful way — before he called for the guards to let the first supplicant in.

\---

Bladechaser knew only a scant number of Autobots had ever been granted an audience with the Emperor. It was therefore an honour — or perhaps dumb luck — that he had had been chosen.

He knew of Optimus Prime, of course. Though they hadn't been personally acquainted, there wasn't a bot in the galaxy who didn't know of him. The last of the Primes. The Leader of the Autobots.

And, since the conclusion of Great War, the Empress of Cybertron.

Everyone knew that Megatron had always been head over heels for the Prime. But as Bladechaser made his way through the audience chamber — unable to fully stop the jump in his own field at the sight of the rulers of their remade world — he realised he had never understood how deep the warlord's madness ran.

For there, clearly entwined in an unspeakably _carnal_ state, was the Slagmaker himself. It seemed his offer of sharing a throne with Optimus was to be interpreted literally.

Red and blue optics looked down at him. Bladechaser made every effort to steer his optics from Megatron's servos — that great limb of sunset and steel that so wholly covered Optimus' interface panel. As if Bladechaser and every bot in the room couldn't smell the lubricant and transfluid that was clearly puddling over the throne.

Bladechaser bowed his helm, swallowed hard, and said his part. The bots of Crystal City had reneged on the terms of their former trade agreement. An energon refinery on the border had been ransacked. The Senate of Crystal City said they were unable to find the perpetrators even though Autobot sentries had found traces of _their_ CNA at the refinery.

Then, having said his part, he looked up, clasping both servos and making the mark of the Covenant. Optimus' optics flickered and he shifted slightly, moving his right hand to mimic Bladechaser's gesture.

The Emperor broke the silence.

"And what is it," he drawled in heavily-accented Iaconian as his grip on the Empress' waist tightened, "You are asking for, oh loyal denizen of Iacon?"

Bladechaser needed to reset his vocaliser before glyphs would leave his glossa.

"I am asking for an external auditor from Kaon," he said, "To look over the situation and judge for themselves, both the state of the trade agreement and the culprits behind the ransacking of the refinery."

Optimus was looking right at him then, too far for Bladechaser to make out his field, but close enough that he could tell the other wanted to speak. The kliks dragged on in silence. Megatron's other servos — the one covering Optimus' interface panel — shifted slightly. Not enough to show anything — and it wasn't as if Bladechaser would have dared look down.

Instead, he kept his own optics trained on the last of the Primes, trying to convey the gratitude he and the rest of the Autobots felt. Not an orn went by without mourning the extended absence of their Prime. Though the Emperor had yet to lose interest, even after three sparklings and a war, hope nonetheless sprung eternal.

Optimus' optics were bright blue and the rest of his plating sang of good health. His spark though... Bladechaser had no doubts that the Empress' spark was in a sorry state. He was so lost in thought, he almost missed the Emperor's reply.

"You will have your external auditor," Megatron drawled. He tossed a datapad over. Bladechaser fumbled to catch it. It featured an image of a Decepticon in the usual dark paint scheme, this one drowned in blue with splashes of red.

"That," the Emperor continued, "Is Wildbreak. He will be waiting for you at the Western Gates. See to it that the Senate members are aware of his presence."

Bladechaser bowed deeply, murmuring thanks. Right as he straightened himself out, about to leave, the Emperor spoke again.

"Wait."

"Yes, my liege?" Bladechaser asked, optics flickering from one ruler to the next.

"My mate would like to know how your city fares."

 _By the Allspark,_ Bladechaser thought with dawning horror, fighting to keep it from showing on his face, on his fields. _The Slagmaker has taken the Prime's voice_. It explained so much and yet begged even more questions.

It was clear they had underestimated the depths of Megatron's obsession. And now Optimus was paying the price.

With effort, Bladechaser managed to recount the current affairs of Iacon. Despite the tensions in the west, the city was flourishing. Optimus' optics brightened — as he hoped they would — at the news of the reopening of the Central Archives.

"Enough," the Emperor commanded, taking his servos from Optimus' waist and gesturing at the door. "See yourself out. And remember to inform the Senate of Wildbreak's assistance in this matter."

Bladechaser stumbled out, weak at the knees. He made it all the way to the Western Gates, where sure enough, the same blue and red Decepticon from the datapad was now waiting. Even as he reassured himself that this was for the best, that Optimus Prime had been a willing sacrifice, he couldn't get the image of the two of them — practically in the middle of _interface_ — joined so casually, so obscenely, on the Slagmaker's throne.

It was, he feared, exactly as the Emperor willed.

\---

As was usually the case after any audience with an Autobot, Megatron's field was aflame with envy by the end of it. Optimus was forced to wallow in his own miserable anticipation — having had six vorns to grow accustomed to his perpetually obscene state — for an additional three joors as there were seven more audience requests after Bladechaser.

But then the last one, a Seeker from Altihex by the name of Icejet, left and with his departure, Megatron at last pulled him up and out, giving Optimus' ports less than a klik of reprieve, before turning him around so that they were facing one another once more and sinking both spikes back in.

Even after six vorns, Optimus still felt the fullness of the intrusion. It was an unpleasant and ever-present reminder of their union.

And then Megatron was carrying him from the audience hall back to their berth room. Optimus could make out a couple cleaning drones over his mate's pauldrons. They knew better than to look.

It was only when he was deposited on the berth — still joined at both ports, of course — that Megatron began to frag into him with earnest.

 _Mine_ , the Slagmaker's every thrust declared. _Mine, mine, mine._

Optimus feared the other would forever find some enjoyment in laying claim to him.

Unlike their morning session, this fragging session was hard and fast. Mixed fluids spilled from both his ports — though mostly from his valve — as Megatron overloaded within a breem.

And yet even in the afterglow, Optimus noted envy was the primary emotion which lanced through his bondmate's fields.

His trembling frame was pulled into the warlord's lap. Electrified servos flittered down the length of his stretched-tight spine. And then, because Megatron was nothing if not cruel, his mate and master flicked on the vibrating feature of his clawtips, using the rapidly-whirring motors to run against Optimus' aft.

The reaction said vibrations caused in his frame was instantaneous. It bucked towards the touch as a low and needy moan rumbled from his engine. His vocaliser sputtered, equal parts desperation and impotence, as his hips ground down hard against the Slagmaker's primary spike.

Optimus was left half-mad from pleasure — for Megatron, the sadist, had activated the same motors on his other servos and was now teasing both his valve and aft — when his bondmate spoke. Well, asked, really.

The three questions were one of the warlord's favourite games. They served as both affirmation and reassurance of their permanently-intertwined state and never failed to soothe the worst of the envy from his field.

"Who do you belong to?" Megatron asked, whispering the query against Optimus' left audial.

Optimus arched into the not-touch, already a helpless wanton wreck.

‹You,› he bit back. It was the correct response.

"And whose spike is this," Megatron's claws teased the outer node, causing Optimus to throw his helm back in strangled pleasure, "Pretty little valve made for?"

‹Yours.›

Megatron gave a pleased hum at that, moving to mouth at the right audial. Then he jerked his hips, forcing Optimus' backstruts to rest once more against the berth, before thrusting into him anew.

"And," the warlord concluded, stilling his thrusts so that his intakes hovered a milliklik above Optimus', "Whose sparklings will you bear until the end of time?"

‹Ours.›

And then Megatron's intakes covered his own and their fields followed suit. Possessive delight, as dark and deep as the initial claiming, washed over the two of them as Megatron at last permitted him to overload.

Optimus collapsed in a heaving strutless wreck, arms and legs wrapped tight about his bondmate. The action was practically a compulsion at this point.

His valve and aft clenched, pleased to be filled with fresh transfluid, and the sparkling in his chassis gave a similarly satisfied burble. Optimus let himself be rearranged anew before his bondmate carried him off for another round of fueling.


End file.
